Anyone's Ghost
by The Girl on the Moor
Summary: Whilst investigating the murder of Doctor John Watson Sherlock Holmes uses his special talent to talk to those who have passed away to solve the case. But how can you grow to care for someone who is no longer living? AU Sherlock/John
1. Chapter 1

Anyone's Ghost

Chapter One

_The first time it happened Sherlock Holmes was six years old._

_He's school reports for previous years had stated he was a boy of beyond average intelligence, a vivid imagination and seeming to have an unhealthy obsession with pirates. _

_After the event they would describe how suddenly closed off he'd become. How the other children stayed away. How he' only speak with his imaginary friends._

"_Sherlock," his mother would say each day before school. His small blazer was perfectly buttoned, his tie straight and hair immaculate. "In life you need to be able to talk to people. To have friends. You can't just be by yourself forever."_

"_I can try…" The small boy would declare determinedly. "Besides, people are boring. My friends are far more interesting… They've got stories!"_

"_Real people would have stories if you spoke to them…"_

"_My friends are real!" His mother usually gave up at that point. Elizabeth Holmes knew there was no point arguing with her youngest son. He'd inherited her own stubbornness; it was like arguing with a smaller, male version of herself most days. She'd place his cap on his head and watch him grab a hold of his older brother, Mycroft's, hand. The two would walk down the large drive way leading towards their home and vanish from sight. _

_The first time it happened he was six._

_It was a cold day, rainy with dark clouds hanging from the sky like flickering lanterns. The sun was hidden and the light dim reflected off of the puddles. Sherlock was playing in the garden, a bright red bandana tied around his head and an eye patch over one eye. He was just about to make Mr Trunks (a rather battered cuddly elephant) walk the plank when he heard the crying. _

_The low distant sound of all hope been lost and utter desperation. He'd placed his wooden sword down and flipped the eye patch onto his forehead. He peered around the large garden for a second, wondering if Mycroft had caused one of the maids to have yet another breakdown with his comments on their dusting. He stumbled to his feet, his knees scraped and red. _

"_Someone… Please help me…" It was defiantly a woman. A young woman, to be more precise. He followed the sound towards the large, old oak tree that stood at the end of the grassed area. He silently peeped around it and found the source of the tears._

_A young woman, no older then nineteen, sat there. Her back pressed against the thick bark and her knees pulled up to her chest. Her face was turned towards the sky, droplets of liquid pouring down her cheeks at a remarkable speed. Her floral dress was blindingly bright, her long red hair lightly tangled._

"_You don't work here," the young boy declared. "I'd recognise you if you did." The girls gaze snapped to him as she suddenly sat up. She eyed the small pirate for a second before allowing her jaw to lightly fall._

"_You… You can see me?" Sherlock frowned and pulled the bandana from his head revealing his messy, thick curls. _

"_Of course I can. Why wouldn't I be able to? You're here aren't you?"_

"_I… I guess I am."_

"_This is my garden. If my father knew you were here he'd call the police. He doesn't like people been on the property who don't belong. Do you belong?"_

"_I… I'm not sure." Sherlock sighed and rolled his large ice blue eyes._

"_You must be sure. I know I belong here. This is where my parents are so that's why I am here. Why are you here?" The girl stuttered for a moment before clearing her throat and pulling herself up so she was kneeling on the soft ground._

"_I'm lost."_

"_Where are you trying to get to?"_

"_I'm not hundred percent sure on that one." Sherlock huffed and sat down next to her._

"_You don't seem to know a lot."_

"_I'm afraid I don't. I haven't for a very long time." The two sat in silence for a while, the sound of the birds over head filling their ears and the smells of damp grass their nostrils. "What's your name little pirate?"_

"_Sherlock Holmes. Captain Sherlock Holmes." The girl laughed and smiled down at the small boy._

"_Pleasure to meet you Captain. I'm Claire. Claire Lock." Sherlock nodded, taking in the information._

"_Where are your mother and father?"_

"_Oh, very far away I'm afraid."_

"_Oh…" Sherlock paused a moment before getting to his small feet and pulling his eye patch back down. "My father won't be home for a few hours and my mothers in her study. If you want you can play with me. Although if either of my parents decide to make an appearance I'm afraid you will have to run."_

"_I don't see that been a problem." Sherlock nodded and turned to leave. "Sherlock!"_

"_Captain Sherlock!"_

"_Sorry, Captain Sherlock?"_

"_Yes Lock?" Claire smiled lightly before speaking._

"_Have there been others like me. You know, people who've just appeared. Not just in the garden, perhaps the house? Or at school?" Sherlock seemed to think a moment before speaking._

"_Not that I can think of. I usually remember everything so I'd recall something like that."_

"_How old are you Sherlock?"_

"_I just turned six." Claire nodded and seemed to think for a moment._

"_If you do see other people like me Sherlock. People who others say aren't there or are in your imagination just remember you're not crazy. It's all very much real."_

"_Why would they say such things? You're very clearly here!" Claire nodded and smiled sadly._

"_Indeed I am… Shall we play pirates then Captain?"_

"_Yes Matey! Let's bored the ship and head out to sea!"_

_They played for what seemed like hours before both found themselves lying on their backs, staring up at the sky._

"_Claire?"_

"_Yes Captain."_

"_Where do you come from?"_

"_I…" she thought for a moment. "I'm unsure; it's all a little foggy. I just remember opening my eyes and I was here. Like I'd blinked and was suddenly in the garden. That was a long, long time ago though. I think I'm meant to be there…" She pointed at the sky and sighed. "It's like an everlasting torment." Sherlock peered at her through the corner of his eye and frowned._

"_You can't go to the sky. That's madness."_

"_Life is mad Sherlock. Everything about it is absolutely and completely bonkers." The small boy thought for a moment before nodding in agreement._

_As the sun began to set he said farewell, gathered his toys and ran back towards the house. _

_After that Sherlock saw Claire in the garden almost every day, each of those days presenting a new adventure for the unlikely friends. Sherlock began to report that, indeed, he was starting to see many people around that he hadn't before. _

_No one else paid them any attention but they seemed to like him. They acted the same way Claire had when they first met. Shocked… yet happy. _

_Claire had smiled and said not to worry, it wasn't a bad thing. Sherlock was a very special little boy with a very special talent. Sherlock had told her he knew he was talented, he was top in all his subjects._

_His parents explained it away as one of those childish things, imaginary friends who he thought up. _

_His teachers suggested a psychologist; his mother suggested they mind their own business. _

_The day before his eighth birthday his father smiled happily and announced that the bottom of the garden, where the old oak tree stood, would be dug up so that the Holmes family could enjoy an outdoor swimming pool during the upcoming summer._

_As the diggers arrived and began to rip the ground up Sherlock watched from his bedroom window. He was excited, wondering if perhaps he could somehow get Claire to go swimming with him, they could play Marco Polo and see who could hold their breath the longest. _

_Two hours into the digging everything came to a sudden and abrupt halt. Sherlock's mother frantically screamed at one of the staff to call the police as she stared astounded into the recently dug hole. White tents where put up as men in suits and white overalls patrolled around with concerned expressions on their faces. _

_Several hours later a large black bag containing something that Sherlock wasn't allowed to know about was removed and placed into a police van. The pool was built and the family never spoke of the incident again. _

_Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months. Despite the frequent visits to the garden and his hour long searches Sherlock never saw Claire again. That is until he found an old copy of the paper tucked away in his mothers study. _

_The front page showed the smiling face he'd come so used to seeing, those eyes that had shimmered with something Sherlock didn't understand._

_The head line read…._

'_Body of Claire Lock found after twenty years in grounds of old family home…"_

_It was then Sherlock realised the red headed teenager had been right._

_He was very special indeed._

* * *

><p>People went along with their lives, hand in hand with their dreams and thoughts of the future. Pointless ideas that meant nothing and passed as silently as dust flying through the air.<p>

From the window of his flat (221B Baker Street) Sherlock Holmes watched silently, a hand resting against the cool glass. His eyes watched then with a slight pity. None of them had a single clue, not on particle of an idea, as to how simple their lives where. How any second of any day they could be blown out like a candle in the wind. He allowed his hand to fall back down to his side as he turned towards the empty living room.

For once, he was actually alone. The silence was gratefully received as he wondered over to his armchair and slumped down into it, knocking the pile of books that had been balanced on the arm onto the floor. He cast them a wistful glance before returning to staring at nothing in particular.

On the coffee table a cup of cold tea, which had been there for the best part of a day, had created a thick skin over the top. He eyed it tiredly, the science behind the small event racing through his mind.

He eyed his violin, wondering if perhaps he should use this rare section of 'free time' to write some sort of piece or perhaps brush up on some old favourites.

Deciding he'd rather not move he sunk further into the chair.

The last case, for some reason, had really taken it out of him.

A child, seven years old, had been found drowned in the Thames. Children where always so hard to communicate with. They were always less accepting as to what it was that was happening. Always having questions to ask instead of answering his.

The little boy in particular, George Scot, had been extremely inquisitive. He seemed to find is situation 'cool' and the fact Sherlock could see him 'awesomely awesome'. Needless to say the case had taken longer than planned, but when cracked well worth the wait. It seemed the drowning had been nothing more than an accident, a childish prank gone wrong. With another success story by his name the worlds only consulting detective had returned home and began to formulate the reasoning as to how he knew what had happened. That was always the most fun, looking deeper into the case then he'd originally done and pulling facts together in order to back up his theory. The last thing Scotland Yard needed to know was how Sherlock truly gained some of his information.

Where would the fun be in that?

On the other side of the room, on his desk, his phone began to buzz. The shrill sound of his ringtone piercing the silence like a knife through flesh. He pulled himself up quickly and grabbed it; pressing answer he held it to his ear.

"Sherlock?"

"Who else would it be Lestrade?" Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade allowed a sigh to escape his lips.

"How are you feeling?"

"Since we last spoke two hours ago? About the same."

"Right, well. Look, we've just had a case come in. Seems like something you could help us out on…"

"Text me the address."

"You don't know anything about it yet!"

"Whatever it is I highly doubt you'll be able to cope." He didn't wait for a reply, he hung up and within seconds a text appeared in his inbox. He smirked as he opened it, memorizing the address before sticking the device into his pocket. He grabbed his coat, pulling it on as he jogged through the door and down the stairs. Within in minutes he was in a taxi, watching the world pass him by as a thousand thoughts ran through his mind.

He saw a few of them on the streets. They were usually just stood still, looking shocked and astounded. They always looked lost, so very lost in a sea of people that couldn't see them. Sherlock was silently grateful that he was moving at such a speed they couldn't notice his acknowledgement of them.

The taxi pulled up outside a small cottage like house, a picture perfect setting of comfort and normality. Exactly the sort of surrounding Sherlock detested.

He paid the driver and clambered out onto the street. Several police cars lined the road, thick brightly coloured tape blocking the path to the house off from passersby.

"What are you doing here freak?" Sally Donovan eyed the taller man with narrowed eyes. "We haven't even had a chance here yet!"

"Well, we wouldn't want to waste time now would we?" Sally frowned and stepped aside.

"Whatever you say freak. Just keep out of my way today. I'm really not in the mood."

"Yes, I suppose one would feel like that after been stood up for a lunch date."

"What! How did you kno… Actually, I don't care. Just go on your way and leave me alone." Sherlock watched as she stamped towards one of the many police cares. He quickly turned away and ducked under the blockade. Around him people searched through the garden, seeking the minute pieces of evidence that could have been concealed there.

"Sherlock," Lestrade appeared in the door way. "Ready for another one?"

"When am I not ready?" Lestrade rolled his eyes and stepped aside, allowing Sherlock into the house.

"Look, I can give you ten minute tops in the actual crime scene. I'm getting a little concerned someone's going to end up reporting me for letting you do this. Namely Donovan." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"She wouldn't. She enjoys having something to complain about far too much."

"Either way, keep it quick." Sherlock paid him no attention as he moved towards the living room. "Male, aged thirty four. Ex-military doctor. Got sent home a few months back after getting shot. Ironic really, considering." Sherlock finally arrived at the scene. His eyes landing on the body almost instantly. The man was shorter then himself and lying on the floral carpet with his face pointing towards the ceiling. One hand was out stretched, as if trying to reach for something, whilst the other lay over his heart. His sandy coloured hair poked out in all directions and his eyes lay shut. If it hadn't been for the seeping bullet wound in his chest it would have seemed the gentlemen were merely sleeping. "His name was John Watson."

"Is John Watson."

"What?"

"Just because someone is dead doesn't mean they don't still have owner ship of their name Lestrade. His name _is_ John Watson." Lestrade seemed startled for a moment before nodding.

"Well, I'll leave you to it. Remember what I said Sherlock. Ten minutes tops." Sherlock waved him off before turning his attention back to the body. He peered down at it slowly. He's clearly been reaching for something. Something that he kept in the nearby draw. The very same on that had been ransacked. More then likely a gun, ex-military and all. It was astounding the number of them that managed to secretly get weapons home. So he had tried to defend himself… But only after the shot was fired.

Odd…

Before that he appeared to have accepted his fate. There was no signs of a fight or any sort of struggle. Everything, beside the emptied draw, still sat tidily around the room. Minus the dead body it appeared to be an average home full of dull, average things.

"What happened to you John Watson?" Sherlock murmured. A gust of ice cold air rushed past his left ear and he shuddered, his voice quietening to whisper. "Keep your eyes on me and follow. Do you understand?" Another gust on the right ear this time. "Always, eyes on me." He turned, his coat cascading behind him as he left the house.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade called as the man jumped into the awaiting cab. "Sherlock! What did you find?"

The younger man wound his window down and peered at the detective inspector coolly.

"Nothing."

"Oh don't give me that! You can't just run off!"

"I have nothing to say to you at this precise moment in time. Please drive on."

"Sherlo…!" He allowed the window to slide shut as he sat back in his seat.

They drive back towards Baker Street the same route they had come and soon enough Sherlock found himself in the safety of his home. He threw his coat down and turned towards the empty room.

"Are you here Doctor Watson?" The curtains where caught by a light breeze from the open window and Sherlock smirked. "Welcome to my humble abode."

He closed his eyes for a few moments and took a deep breath. When he opened them his house guest had arrived.

Doctor John Hamish Watson peered around the living room with wide, surprised eyes and a light shake taking over his form.

"What in the name of _Christ_…?" Sherlock cleared his throat and instantly caught the other mans attention.

"Hello, I suppose you have a few questions."

"You're damn right I do! What the in the bloody _hell_ is going on?" Sherlock moved over to the window, breezing past the apparition that had just appeared with little acknowledgment and slamming it shut. Over London the sun was setting, a hazy orange glow covering the buildings with a soft, peaceful blanket.

"What the hell is going on? _Hm_, that's a rather large question." Sherlock turned and leant on the windowsill. "Unfortunately doctor, at around twelve o'clock this afternoon you appear to have been murdered."

"Wh-_what_?"

"Hm, I'm afraid it's true. Bullet to the chest. Very unlucky. Especially in your case. You'd already survive one gun wound correct?"

"Yes… But…"

"So, my aim is to try and find out who it was that deemed it necessary to end your life so suddenly and violently."

"Wait… slow down." The shorter man ran a hand over his lightly glowing face and stared into nothingness for a second. "So… I'm _dead_?"

"I believe I've already stated…"

"You may have already bloody stated but I don't know you from Adam! For all I know you could have _drugged_ me or something!"

"Not the first time that I've been accused of doing such a thing."

"What do you mean not the first time?" Sherlock stood up straight and took a step towards the terrified looking gent.

"This is what I do. I find people such as yourself. People stuck here, and help them. I find out why whatever has happened to them has happened and then they move on."

"Move on where?"

"Oh details! What does it matter? It's what you're meant to do so be grateful of the help. If I left it to the police you'd be wondering for years. Now, tell me. What do you remember?"

"Remember?"

"Yes. About how you died? Often they remember very little, perhaps nothing. But over time it returns to them. Once they're used to how they exist now." John hugged his arms tightly around himself and shuddered.

"Could you perhaps… I don't know, not be so _cold_ about the whole thing. I'm a little shaken as it happens."

"It's not all puppies and rainbows Doctor Watson. What did you imagine death would be like?" John glanced at his new 'friend' quickly before looking away.

"I'm still not sure I believe you." Sherlock rolled his eyes and pointed at the shorter man chest.

"Look." In silence the ex solider raised his cream, thick jumped up above his neck and peered down at himself. In the centre of his chest, where Sherlock had seen a large bloody hole on the corpse of the man not an hour earlier, was a large dark scare. Thick and twisted.

"What the…"

"It's a death mark, shows where the cause for your demise occurred." John moved a hand over the mark silently before letting his jumper fall down.

"This has got to be a dream…" Sherlock watched as he began to wonder around the room in a sort of daze.

"I would say get some sleep… but you won't need any from now on." John didn't seem to be listening but nodded any way.

"I suppose a cup of tea is out of the question?" he asked with a shaking voice.

"I'm afraid so."

* * *

><p>In a dark corner, far away from Baker Street, tucked behind a bin full of rotting food and discarded rubbish a little girl was curled into a tight ball, her arms aching from the pressure she was putting on them.<p>

Her tatty clothes where stained with her own tears and the grit of months spent sleeping on the streets. Her six year old hands slowly pressed themselves over her eyes as the man in front of her watched carefully.

"Please don't be scared… I'm not going to hurt you… But… You can see my right…?" She nodded tearfully.

"Yes… _Please_ leave me alone!"

"Hey, calm down! I'm really not going to hurt you…. What's your name princess?"

"Hope…"

"Hello Hope… I'm Damien. You know… No one's been able to see me for a very long time. You must be very special indeed…"

Hope slowly uncurled herself, deciding to allow the man to talk. No one had ever called her special before. As she listened to his stories she was completely unaware.

Unaware that on the other side of the city was a man just as special as she was.

* * *

><p>Hello, would be truly lovely to know what you thought about this. It will be SherlockJohn. How I hear you ask? Well, all will be revealed in time. Chapter two is on its way. Hope you're having a fabulous day whomever you maybe.

GOTM

x


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

John Watson stared at the mirror his eyes scanning it with a narrowed gaze and light frown. On the other side of the room Sherlock sat, his hands avidly typing away at his laptop with a speed John thought impossible.

"I don't have a reflection…" Sherlock looked up for a brief moment before turning back to the laptop screen.

"Did you really expect to have one?"

"Well… No. I guess not. It's just a shock."

"I expect it is." John sighed and turned to look at his new 'flat mate'.

"I'm not the first person… and I use the term person lightly… you've had hanging around here whilst you investigate am I?" Sherlock sighed and turned in his chair to eye the sandy haired man.

"No, you aren't. What's that matter? Jealous?" John gaped for a second before gathering his bearings.

"No! Of course I'm not! It's just… What do they usually do? Just wonder around like lost lambs?" Sherlock seemed to consider this for a moment before speaking.

"They do different things. I recall one young woman who enjoyed the television, a little too much in my opinion. One gentleman took it upon himself to read my entire book collection, calling for me when he needed the page turned. It was extremely frustrating."John nodded and folded his arms.

"Can't I help you with something?"

"What could I possible need your help with?" John shrugged and met the detective's eyes.

"_Anything_. I just hate been this bored... Is this what it's going to be like from now on? Just constantly so, so _bored_?" Sherlock eyed him for a moment before turning back to his laptop.

"I found your blog this morning."

"You did?" John seemed to perk up at that, wondering towards the younger man and peering over his shoulder.

"Clearly something your therapist made you do…"

"What? How did you know that?"

"You had a psychosomatic limp; of course you had a therapist."

"How'd you know that?" Sherlock smirked and glanced over his shoulder.

"At the crime scene, your cane was on the other side of the room. If you truly had some sort of physical impairment surely the first thing you'd reach for would be the thing that aided your movement. When the time came, you're leg was absolutely fine. It was all in your mind." John seemed to think for a moment before smiling.

"That's brilliant! Genius! What else did you pick up on?"

"You're parents died when you where very young, more than probably due to a car accident. Thus the reason you never learnt to drive. People often decide to just not get a driver's licence, but a doctor who could get woken up at any time of night for an emergency? No, you worry about been in charge of something so powerful."

"How'd you guess about my parents?"

"The photos that where hanging in your house. When you're around nine they stop appearing and are instead replaced with another couple. An aunt and uncle I presume. When your sister was old enough she took charge of you. But you have little contact with her now, probably due to her alcohol addiction."

"Wow, you're brilliant!" Sherlock blinked and turned to properly look at his house guest.

"Really? That's not what people usually say."

"What do people usually say?"

"They kindly inform me I should piss off and mind my own business." John laughed, a sound that filled the whole room like a delightfully fatal gas.

"Well, I think it's amazing! You're very talented Sherlock."

"I know."

"And modest to match!" He laughed again and shook his head. "So, what else did you find out about me from your little web search this morning?"

"Not much of interest. A few old news paper articles, your blog… that's about it."

"I never cared much for technology. Give me a pen and paper any day."

"A man of tradition?" John snorted.

"Hardly." Sherlock raised an eyebrow but didn't question it, instead he pulled himself up.

"We're going out."

"Out where? Can I even go outside?"

"Of course you can. My flat isn't Limbo John. You aren't stuck here. I need to check something at Bart's."

"Bart's hospital? That's where I trained."

"I knew that."

"How… Actually, don't worry. Not sure I want to know. What do you need to do there?" Sherlock smiled and opened the door for his new friend.

"I need to just have a small look at your corpse."

* * *

><p>Sherlock had an unwritten rule, when in public whatever particular spirit happened to be following him that day would find themselves ignored. Usually, that was easy. They were mostly complete dullards who ranted on about their family or revenge to whom ever had killed them. Other times they where children who enjoyed nothing more than running around the legs of people. The moment they realized they couldn't be seen they liked to pretend they where super heroes or some other such foolishness. But John was different. Sherlock enjoyed talking to the doctor, he actually seemed to understand and appreciate his deductions. He found himself wanting to talk to his latest follower.<p>

John, however, seemed to be thinking one step ahead and on the journey to Bart's kept his mouth firmly shut. He peered at the taxi driver as if waiting for him to suddenly realise he had two passengers and not just the one. When the moment didn't come he turned his attention out the window.

Sherlock watched the other with curious eyes. John Watson was strange, not in a bad way necessarily. Just odd. Which, to Sherlock, was a bonus. Rather odd then boring.

They pulled up outside Bart's, Sherlock holding the door open a little longer then necessary to let John pass. Not that it would hurt the other man if he let it slam shut in his face, but it seemed common courtesy to treat John as if he were alive and well.

They moved through the building, passing labs and staff as they went about their daily lives.

"Sherlock…" John muttered as if others could hear him. "Can I… can I see others like me?" Sherlock silently glanced around and frowned. Hospitals where the worst place to see those who had passed on. They seemed scared to leave the safety of the place they'd spent their final days. To their left a man stood in a gown, a large scar across his face and a bewildered gaze taking in the view.

Sherlock nodded once and John moved slightly close to him.

"Yes, well. Good…"

"Sherlock!" The detective stopped and turned around to see a short, plump man in a lab coat running towards him.

"Ah, Mike." Mike Stamford smiled sadly and stopped in front of the taller man, taking a moment to catch his breath.

"I know him…" John whispered. "We trained together!"

"I hear you looking into the death of John Watson…" Mike began, running a hand slowly over his face. "I… I really can't believe what's happened. We trained together you see, you probably know he was a doctor right? We lost contact a while ago but I heard he'd been sent home injured from the war… I feel _awful_. I mean… I could have made the effort to look him up or something."

"Oh, Mike…" John said sadly. Sherlock stayed silent for a moment before clearing his throat.

"I'm sure Mr Watson wouldn't want you to think like that." Mike chuckled and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

"I suppose you're right. He was a great man. You'd have liked him. Everyone liked John Watson. Not a bad bone in his body!" Sherlock smiled a little, glancing at his new friend before turning back to Mike.

"From what I've heard I think we'd have gotten along very well." Mike nodded and turned to walk away.

"Well, I'll see you around Sherlock." They two men watched the other vanish before Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Well, let's get this over with."

If there was one thing John thought he'd never do it was stare down at the cold, dead image of his own corpse. It was odd, yet not frightening. After all, he was a doctor; he'd seen hundreds of dead bodies before that moment. It just so happened this one had a face extremely similar to his own. The young woman who worked there, Molly, paced back and forth talking to Sherlock with a smile on her face.

"So, did you know him? Or is this just another case?"

"Another case."

"I see, yes. Well, what are you looking for exactly? The post-mortem was done yesterday."

"It always helps to have a second opinion." Sherlock's eyes lingered on John before returning to Molly. The doctor stared at his corpse for a moment before speaking.

"Do you want me to… diagnose my own death?" Sherlock nodded and wondered over to where Molly was making two cups of coffee. John watched the two before returning to what lay on the table before him.

He looked carefully, wondering when he'd started to look so old and deciding that the war probably put ten years on him. His eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted and a white sheet covered his lower half. The bullet wound had been cleaned but was still visible.

"Anything out of the ordinary…" He thought slowly. "Anything that wasn't there before… Beside the massive hole in my chest…"

That's when he saw it.

"Sherlock!"

"Right then Molly, I'd best be of. Forget about the coffee. See you soon." He turned and glided from the lab and towards the exit. "What did you notice?"

John was wringing his hands together in front of him as the emerged onto the busy London streets, his eyes down cast and lips shaking slightly.

"John! What did you notice?" A few passersby stared at Sherlock with concerned eyes as he mentally slapped himself for his own stupidity.

"The needle marks Sherlock… There are needle marks on my scar, barely noticeable. Someone drugged me. I remember it now. I answered the door and suddenly it was happening and I was been dragged into my living room." Sherlock nodded and smiled.

"Excellent! We're making progress! I knew this little trip would be useful! You where drugged! Obviously you where drugged! Why didn't I see it before?"

"Sherlock!" There was silence for a few moments as John stared at the other man angrily. "Could you please, _please _have a heart for a second? I've just seen… I mean… I." John shuddered and took a small step closer to the detective. "I don't want to be dead." Sherlock frowned, for some reason feeling compelled to put an arm around the other. He didn't but instead attempted to make his face look somewhat comforting.

"I'm sorry John."

"It's fine."

"It isn't… It wasn't good, the way I behaved, was it?" John laughed and smiled.

"A bit not good, yeah." Sherlock nodded as they turned down a quieter side street.

"We can talk here, it's safer."

"Yeah, don't want people thinking your some sort of nut job… So that Molly girl seemed keen."

"What do you mean?" John rolled his eyes.

"Come on! She obviously likes you! She your girlfriend?"

"Girlfriend? Not really my area…" John paused before speaking again.

"Oh, you got a boyfriend?"

"I consider myself married to my work."

"Sounds lonely."

"I'm never really alone." John nodded as they appeared onto a main road and clambered into a taxi.

"No, I suppose you aren't."

* * *

><p>Hope pulled herself through the small hole she'd come across not moments earlier and found herself in the large, empty space of the abandoned warehouse she'd discovered. It was starting to rain again and the last thing the small child wanted was to catch a cold.<p>

She dragged her backpack in behind her and allowed a breath to escape her lips.

"Warm…" She murmured, allowing the comfort to grace her small, slim body. In silence she wondered over to a small corner, pulling her blanket out of her bag and pulling it around herself. She grabbed her cuddly toy, a small battered looking rabbit, and pulled it to her chest.

"Listen Mr Carrot…" She murmured softly. "I know we haven't had a lot of luck… But mummy used to say that after all the bad comes the good. So soon we'll have the good. That would be nice. To have some good for once." She made the rabbits head nod lightly.

Hope curled in on herself, the toy safely tucked between her knees and her chest as she waited for sleep and soon enough it over took her…

_The flowers… they where the most wonderful things she'd ever seen. She was running, her arms outstretched and grazing against their petals._

"_Hope! Sweetie!" She stopped and turned._

"_Mummy!" She was there, her life, her angel. The woman with air as red as fire and lips that smiled. _

_A smile that could calm a raging lion._

"_Hope, where are you baby?"_

"_I'm here mummy! I'm here!" _

_Then the flames came. They ripped the trees from the ground and murdered the flowers that stood in their way. She couldn't see through the smoke but she could hear the screaming._

"_Oh god! It hurts! It hurts!" _

"_Mummy!"_

_She was coughing._

_Couldn't breathe_

_Panicking._

_So hot. So hot. So hot._

"_Help me! SOME ONE HELP ME PLEASE!" _

_And then, all was quiet._

"_Wake up little one; I'd like to have a chat…"_

Large green eyes snapped open to be greeted by another pair.

"Hello there." Hope sat up suddenly, her gaze darting around for any means of escape. "Calm down, I'm not going to hurt you." She paused and slowly reached forward, allowing a pale finger and poke the man's face. "Yes, I am one of the real ones. But not everyone you see is real, are they Hope?"

"How do you know my name?"

"I know a lot of things." The man smiled and stood up, peering down at her with a smirk. "I've been watching you a long time. Waiting. And now you can see them can't you? The people that aren't really there?"

Hope nodded slowly and pulled Mr Carrot closer to her chest.

"They aren't bad. They're good. They keep me safe. They like me."

"I'm sure they do, how could anyone not like you? But Hope, would you like to know a teeny tiny little secret?" The little, raven haired, girl thought a moment before nodding. The man knelt down slowly, peering straight at her with a smile. "I can see them to…"

* * *

><p>Sherlock emerged from his bedroom to find John sat on the windowsill over looking Baker Street. Below them children laughed and played, couples wondered past hand in hand… It all seemed so very, very alive.<p>

"John?" The doctor looked up, slightly dazzled for a moment before smiling softly.

"Yes?"

"Are you ok?"

"Yeah, just… thinking."

"Oh," Sherlock wondered over to his armchair and lowered himself into it. In silence his picked his violin up and began to pluck the strings absentmindedly. "Thinking about what?"

"Probably the usual rubbish people think about when their dead. What could I have done differently? Have I wasted my life? Blah, blah bloody blah." Sherlock thought for a moment.

"And?"

"And what?"

"What conclusions did you reach in regards to your questions?" John frowned at him and stayed silent for a few moments.

"Well, if I could do something differently I'd have made more of an effort to help Harry out. I know she got herself into this mess but maybe if I'd just held on a little longer it would have made a difference. As to the question of whether I've wasted my life… No. I don't think I have." Sherlock tilted his head and smiled.

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, I've enjoyed my life, minus the few bumps. It could have been a hell of a lot worse. People have gone through a lot more then what I had to."

"Usually people are very self pitying when they reach this stage. Talking about how much they could have achieved and who it was that stopped them doing so." John snorted and went back to peering out of the window.

"No, I was lucky. But if there was one thing… I think I'd have liked to have found someone. You know, a special person in my life and all that bullocks. Probably best I didn't considering I'd just have ended up with a bullet in my chest." Sherlock chuckled and placed the instrument down.

"Relationships are boring, I don't see the point."

"You shouldn't think that. Maybe one day you'll meet the right person. The person you don't want to be apart from, for you they'll have to be interesting. Someone you'll care about and think about all the time. And if they feel the same way… that will make you the luckiest man in the whole of London." Sherlock silently watched the doctor stand up and wonder towards the arm chair opposite him before sitting. "What I'm saying is, you're alive Sherlock. Don't let the world pass you by."

"Thanks for the advice," Sherlock murmured, looking around the room.

"You're welcome. On the other hand don't listen to me. I'm just the rambling spirit haunting your home."

"You aren't haunting me; you wouldn't even know where to begin."

"True, I guess that makes you lucky. I'd cause some trouble." Sherlock laughed and allowed a small smile to tug at his lips.

"I don't think you could be trouble if you tried."

"I've been to war you know."

"True."

Outside the rain pattered against the window as people put up umbrellas and dashed towards bus stops and tube stations. As the hours ticked by neither man moved, content in just sitting and letting the time pass them.

For the first time since his death John felt peaceful.

Later that night, when the moon hung in the sky and stars scattered the midnight sky like diamonds John was once more staring at the window with a curious gaze on his face.

"John? What is it?" Sherlock stood up from his desk and wondered over to where his friend was stood. Under the street lamp on the opposite side of the road a small figure stood staring up at the window.

"That girl… I think… I think she can _see_ me…"

* * *

><p><strong>Pretty please review. I'd very much like to know what you thought!<strong>

**GOTM**

**x**


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